In Remembrance
by RockinJanelle
Summary: In the span of three days, he remembered the life and times spent together. But along with those memories came loneliness—and he never felt so alone in his life. Sequel to "Silent Night". Mystrade. PG.


**Title: **"In Remembrance  
><strong>Pairing: <strong>_Mycroft/Lestrade__  
><em>**TV Show: **_BBC Sherlock  
><em>**Word Count: **_~4,400_  
><strong>Rating: <strong>PG-13  
><strong><br>A/N: This wasn't supposed to happen. But it did.**

**And now there might be a third part. FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFUUUUUUUUUUUUU-**

**Anyway, hey. ****I made a sequel to that crap called "Silent Night" and made more crap! I'll apologize if the writing is a mess, is terrible, everything. **

**Enjoy!**

**x x x x x x x x x x x x x **

He sat alone in his—_their_—bedroom, looking down at the floor holding his hands together. It had only been a few days, but 72 hours alone felt like eternity; how did he survive before Lestrade? And how would he survive after him? He closed his eyes and hung his head in sorrow, quietly praying that it was only a nightmare, that he would soon wake up and see Lestrade back inside their home, back where he belonged.

But he did too much praying over the past few days. He hadn't prayed in years, yet here he was, begging that Lestrade be brought back. But he watched him be wheeled away by those in the hospital that night, watched as the sheet was pulled over his head, the tubes disconnected from his body, his veins stilled. Mycroft stood there as Lestrade started to leave, and all he could see was the blood that trailed with it, the tracks the wheels gave heading straight for the darkened vehicle sitting in the storm.

Mycroft continued to pray. Through the mess, he continued. He gained special clearance to be in the morgue as the autopsy was performed. The attendant—lovely girl, but he paid no special attention to her—gave her condolences as he stood over Lestrade's body. Mycroft didn't answer; he was too busy trying to find a pulse. The pale skin, the bloodied specks, the large wound that was closed up moments ago, the lifeless demeanor that did not suit Lestrade—it was still so beautiful to Mycroft.

He ran his hand through Lestrade's hair (he almost forgot how it felt, how the tips of the hair tickled his palm, how the texture was always so smooth) and stared at the sewn up wound. There was still oozing coming from the skin, still blood trying to trickle down his body. And when Mycroft rested his other hand against it, he wished Lestrade would wake up and tell Mycroft it hurt. But his heart would not start up again; the pulse was gone. The attendant said something about the rest of the procedure being a little grotesque—but he stayed through the entire thing. In the shadows did he stand, watching as Lestrade, his partner, his lover, his everything, was being ripped apart and then put back together again.

It was then when Mycroft first prayed. The attendant had started to talk about her findings, and Mycroft closed his eyes. He didn't want to hear the details anymore; he wanted it to go away. He brought his hands together and prayed, prayed to everything and anything that it would change. They wouldn't step foot in the morgue when alive; they'd stay home, together, lying in the same bed. He told whoever was out there listening that he would change everything in his life—he would retire and never step foot into politics again. He would never harass his brother like he had for years. He would change for Lestrade.

And when he opened his eyes, he was in the bedroom, still looking down at the floor. He brought his hands apart; he hated the feeling. They were so cold. He missed the feel of Lestrade's hand, holding onto him during the night—he didn't realize that the last time he would feel his hand would be when they were forced apart.

He knew he had to move at some point. He had to get ready for the day—it was quite the event, even though Mycroft wanted nothing to do with it. Two days ago, he had to arrange everything. The director, a man that knew nothing of what he was going through, made sure everything would be beautiful and set for the day. Mycroft only accepted the dreadful news and made the visit short. He had not understood why he had to make the arrangements—Sherlock and John felt it was for the best—when his family lived across town. But sitting inside the dreary room filled with flowers that spelled 'remembrance' was the worst thing to do, besides sitting next to his lover's dead body.

Mycroft rose his head and looked ahead. There was his—_their—_closet, slightly opened. He could see one of his suit sticking out from inside, calling him. He knew he had to get it over with, so he started to move. And when he reached out, he felt the cold door handle tickle his fingertips. When Mycroft pulled open the doors, he felt his body go numb. Mixed in with his clothes were Lestrade's. All the clothing Mycroft grew to love, empty. They would never be worn again by his lover; they would sit inside the closet, taunting him.

Mycroft scanned through his suits; he didn't know what to wear. He narrowed it all down to the black suits, which he had about four that were acceptable. One, though, stuck out like a sore thumb. He reached out and touched the threads; it still felt how it did years ago, when he first met Lestrade. It was the first suit he wore for Lestrade, one that he would wear for their first date. Mycroft looked around the other clothing and found the shirt Lestrade wore that night, too. He pulled out the two sleeves and held them in each hand, just staring at the cuffs.

He remembered how Lestrade grabbed his hand by tugging on Mycroft's cuff. Lestrade was always the one to make the first move, as Mycroft was always the shy, held back one. And Lestrade—Mycroft couldn't help but smile at this—would pull Mycroft closer to him, nestled against his arm for support and protection. It was the first time Mycroft ever felt loved—it was the first time he felt love for another human being.

"You sure do wear a lot of suits, Mycroft. How many do you own?" Mycroft smiled, both on the date and in front of his closet.

"Far more than the average man, Greg," he remembered how Lestrade smiled.

"I would not doubt that from you."

Mycroft then remembered their first kiss; it had happened the same night. Lestrade and him stopped in front of his place, and they stood close together. Mycroft couldn't, for the life of him, remember what Lestrade said, but suddenly he felt his hands underneath his jackets' lapels and being pulled down for a kiss. And when their lips collided—god, it felt like fire. He felt…_alive_. They were both hungry for more, equally giving and taking as they stood underneath the small light that hung over their heads. And when they pulled away, Lestrade was flustered.

"Ah, that was quite unprofessional of me. Deepest apologies, Mycroft," Mycroft remembered how there was a small tinge of red on his face. "Bloody hell, I feel like a high school boy again," Mycroft chuckled at the notion and brought his hand to Lestrade's cheek (he remembered how warm and soft his skin was; it was beautiful). Mycroft wouldn't say a word, but he thought otherwise and gently kissed him again.

Mycroft brought his hands together and put the cuffs together, as though they were holding each other. That night, when Mycroft and Lestrade had their first date, neither one wanted to let go. And when they did, they both wished for the warmth to return.

Mycroft stood in front of his closet and hung his head; he felt the tears falling down his face. He clutched onto the sleeves for dear life, wishing he could go back to that time, wishing for it all to stop. He didn't realize it, but as he stood there crying, his hands drifted apart; the sleeves no longer touched one another. He just held onto each piece of clothing for support, longing for that day to be brought back.

**x x x x x x x x x x x x x**

He sat inside the car with John and Sherlock, all driving to the same location. No one spoke (John and Sherlock shared a few words here and there, but the silence deafened the air) and Mycroft took the time to look out the window. With his legs crossed and umbrella resting against his knee, he did nothing but stare out the window. Each house of the neighborhood passed by, each person that walked the streets didn't do a double-take. And he didn't care about them for one day; he cared about everything that happened before all this.

The first night was what Mycroft called Hell. The first night alone in years, the first night when there wouldn't be a person to come home to, the first night where the place was unofficially all his—he hated it. When he first walked through the door, the first thing he saw was Lestrade's favorite coffee mug sitting on the coffee table. He remembered how much of a hurry he was in, how he was moving all over the place because he needed to be in the office. A quick kiss on the lips, the mug placed on the edge, and he was gone.

He closed the door and looked around the home some more. There was Lestrade's jacket resting on the sofa where Mycroft had sat that morning—he left it there because he felt it wasn't cold out that day. "I don't need it, it'll be a nice day out," he said to Mycroft. Mycroft didn't argue; he hated the jacket, truth be told. He walked over to the couch and stood over it for quite some time. He started to remember how it felt to be cuddled next to Lestrade, how he could rest on his chest and hear the soft pangs of his heart against his ear. Mycroft grabbed the jacket.

It was cold, oh so cold. He remembered how Lestrade would take it off after a long day, remember how it would just slip right off wherever he pleased and how warm it was. Mycroft usually only had a few seconds to relish in the warmth, as Lestrade caught him once hugging the poor thing. "You warming it up for me for tomorrow, Mycroft?" He felt the fabric in his hands and noticed how stiff it was without Lestrade's body wrapped in it, how he wished he could have Lestrade standing there, willing to open his jacket up and take Mycroft in it. He wanted to be warm again.

He brought the jacket to his chest and held onto it. He didn't cry, he just stood there for quite some time, hugging the jacket. He wanted to dream that Lestrade was standing there, and Mycroft could hold him. He wanted to feel him again, remember how he felt, who he was, what he smelled like—oddly enough, the jacket did smell like him.

Mycroft turned away from the sofa and walked into the bedroom, aimlessly trying to find a way out of the nightmare. He didn't know what drew him to his bedroom, what caused him to go back to where they shared a room, but there he was, standing in the doorway, looking at an empty room. He turned on the light. Lestrade's clothes were scattered in a few places (so were Mycroft's) and the bed was almost made. The closet was closed; the shades were drawn. A trail led Mycroft to the bed as he turned off the light to follow it.

Mycroft didn't want to be bothered. He noticed the trickle of light coming into the room from the street, how it casually shone on Lestrade's side of the bed (he chose his own side for a reason, in case he worked late, so he could watch Lestrade sleep; it was a peaceful notion). There was a little part of Mycroft that could see Lestrade's outline sleeping on the bed already; Mycroft climbed on his side of the bed and looked at the wall. He never could see that wall when Lestrade was there; there was nothing on it. He remembered the jacket in his arms and cautiously held it against his body; he didn't know why he was being secretive. There wasn't a soul in that room.

Throughout the night, he would hear noises. And every time a noise could creep into his ears, he would always call out to him. "Greg?" He would whisper. His head would be turned to his door and he would wait for the lights outside to turn on, for the shadow to come to the door, for something, anything. But nothing would come—every time, it would be this way. And it didn't matter how many times the noises came in the night. The more there were, the more his hope grew.

He stayed there until the morning came, staring at the wall. He tried to sleep, but every time he closed his eyes, he could hear Lestrade breathing next to him, feel his chest rising and falling. And when he opened his eyes, that damned wall stared back at him. Once in a while, Mycroft wouldn't realize it, but he'd reach out for Lestrade and feel nothing but the cold sheets when his eyes were closed. And when Mycroft opened them, he would slide his hand up and down where Lestrade would be, feel the pillow that was cold, feel the sheets that weren't being used, and feel nothing but air.

Then, and only then, did Mycroft cry during the night. He would close his eyes and wrap his arms around the jacket. His chest would ache. His tears would trickle down to the bed. The jacket would do nothing but confirm that he was gone—but he still held on. He needed it. He needed whatever he could find of Lestrade's to hold on to, just to have him there. And he didn't know how long he cried; he just went with it, only because it hurt.

Mycroft blinked a few times, tears coming to his eyes. He could see how slow they were going; they were in the line. He noticed how many people stood on the sides of the streets, staring at them as they passed. Any other day, he would know them all. But to him, they were nobodies. They walked the earth, they did their duties for the rest of society, and that was it. He wondered why they were out there, to which John spoke. "It's nice, the kind of recognition he's getting, yeah?" Mycroft just stared out the window, noticing women and children that didn't know of him, men that had nothing to do with him, and the police force standing at attention, trying to impress someone.

Then the crowd of people vanished. They were replaced with the living dead, those that could not speak, walk, or hear a thing. All they could do was mark where they were for eternal life. Mycroft saw the rows and columns stretch for miles, all perfectly aligned with the setting sun in the distance. They all casted their own shadows, reaching for life, trying to touch something that could give them another breath; Mycroft couldn't look away.

All the twists and turns the car took, he didn't notice. He was looking for a way out, looking to find a way that would take him home, with Lestrade still alive, with everything he ever wanted in life still there. And then, a sudden stop. Out in the distance, he could see the setting sun glistening over his precious city, still keeping some eye out for him in case of a disaster. He remembered the first time he experienced a sunset with Lestrade—they were at a park.

There was hardly anyone there. In the background, he could hear little children running around on the playground somewhere nearby; the wind was calm; there was hardly a cloud in the sky. The sun was setting in the far distance, with night and day colliding as one. He remembered how Lestrade's hand was intertwined with Mycroft's, where it rested on his knee. He remembered all the colors he saw mixing as one above; he remembered this day.

"I've never really sat with anyone under a sunset," Lestrade commented. Mycroft nodded in agreement.

"I usually am quite busy with diplomats to enjoy a sunset. It is my first in a while as well," he replied. Lestrade leaned his head against Mycroft's shoulder and chuckled.

"Then I don't suppose you'll mind me enjoying the view here?" Lestrade joked. Mycroft closed his eyes and smiled.

"No, I don't suppose so. It will do no harm at all," he wouldn't rest his head against Lestrade's, but he would just stare up at the sky with him, hands still together. They wouldn't move from that park bench for quite some time—in fact, it would be well into the night before they would move. They talked, laughed, talked some more—but they never once had a disagreement. They never found it necessary to move, unless it was to get comfortable. They just sat there, looking at the same star, together.

"We're here, brother," Sherlock said. But Mycroft didn't hear that.

"I'm glad to be here with you," Lestrade commented in their night at the park. Mycroft remembered how he glanced down at Lestrade, stealing a glance of his own. Mycroft smiled.

"As am I, Greg," he whispered. Sherlock looked over at John, wondering what he meant. John shook his head; Sherlock didn't understand. The car door opened beside John and Sherlock, and Sherlock stared at his brother more. Mycroft was still.

"Mycroft," John whispered. Sherlock stared more at his brother, finally noticing him turn his head. Mycroft wanted to see Lestrade again, wanted to be back at the park. Instead, he saw those shadows mocking him. He looked at the two across from him, both dressed in black, and nodded. He looked down at his own attire; he was wearing the black pinstriped suit he wore on his first date with Lestrade.

But this wasn't a date; it was a funeral.

**x x x x x x x x x x x x x**

The hearse opened its doors and revealed the white coffin. Mycroft stared at it for a moment. He wondered if it was light, wondered if he should actually touch the thing that was forever holding his partner. The last time he held Lestrade, actually held him in his arms, not the other way around—he couldn't remember. Was it a week ago? Yes, in bed, when they were falling asleep. It was always so nice to feel him at night, lightly fall asleep.

He took a step back; he watched others carry him to the resting place, watched others nod in agreement as they walked away from Lestrade. Then, and only then, did he move alongside Lestrade. He couldn't bear to carry him; Mycroft couldn't handle the burden.

He stood beside the coffin; he didn't want to sit (though there was a chair behind him, just in case). He just stared down at the wreath of flowers resting on the white coffin, wondering if Lestrade was actually in there. Of course he was, he thought; he saw the body being placed in the coffin when it was being done. The priest beside him spoke in a might voice, speaking of God and Heaven, about Lestrade's life, about the well-being of Lestrade—he hated the priest. He knew nothing about Lestrade, nothing about what he meant to Mycroft.

He rested a hand on top of the coffin; it was cold. He waited for some kind of a sign, something that would signify that he was alive. Mycroft wished that there would be a pounding against the lid, wishing to escape. But he wouldn't hear it, not in this lifetime. He looked at coffin, staring, praying, hoping, anything. He just wanted…he wanted warmth.

One by one, people came up next to the coffin to share their thoughts and stories with Lestrade. First was a woman police officer—she went on about how she cherished every moment with him. Mycroft paid no attention to her, as he knew she was lying. Next was another officer, then more and more. He tuned them out; he didn't care about the politics of his life. He cared more about how he lived, how he loved, how he cared about Mycroft. The rest didn't matter; it was supposed to be the two of them together until the end of days.

Then John was beside the coffin. He rested a consoling hand on Mycroft's shoulder (Mycroft didn't move) and spoke. It wasn't much, just of how much of a man Lestrade was, how caring he was, how much of a gentleman he was, how humble…Mycroft felt tears in his eyes again. He closed his eyes and started to pray. Oh, how he wished his gentleman would come back. How he wished that the man in his life would return. "It's a shame to see him go," John ended. Mycroft hung his head and tightened his eyes shut. He couldn't see the coffin, not again.

Suddenly, someone was touching his arm. He looked to the side and noticed the priest touching him. "Would you like to say a few words?" he asked. Mycroft wasn't prepared; he hadn't a speech on him. He looked back at the coffin, wondering if he should say anything—and if he did, what would he say? His chest was hurting, his breathing was sporadic, and his head was pounding. He looked back at the priest, and nodded.

The priest stepped aside and let him talk. Mycroft didn't turn to the attendants of the funeral; he only spoke to Lestrade. And to those that listened, well, they hung their heads and prayed for his well-being. "Greg," he whispered. His hand slid along the coffin and he shook his head. "Greg, do you remember the park?" He stopped his hand over what would probably be where Lestrade's head was, and stared. He looked at his other hand and frowned.

Mycroft felt the air go through the spaces of his fingers. "Did you know that your hand has been the only one to hold mine? It seems your hand was the first I've ever wanted to hold. How your fingers fit between mine, how the world seemed so small when you and I were intertwined," he whispered. He looked up at the sunset and noticed the same colors reflect that day, how night and day were colliding once more. "You should see it, Greg. You should still be here, watching our sunset, looking at our star. I couldn't keep my eyes off you, though, Greg. I couldn't…" he looked back at his hand.

"I couldn't let go of you. That's why we stayed so late." _"Mycroft, it's getting a little late. Let's go home." _"Home, how dull it is now without you there. Must we leave like this, Greg?" _"We can come back another time, you and I. We'll make it a date. Let's go." _"I don't want you to go." Mycroft rested his other hand against the coffin and stared down at the glimmering white. "Please don't go," he whispered, tears falling from his eyes. He hung his head, trying to hide what he did not want others to see. His hands were getting colder; the light in the distance was disappearing. Mycroft turned his head away from the attendants and silently stood there, gazing out at the empty spaces others called home.

He heard feet behind him marching in time; he closed his eyes. He knew what was coming. Then, someone placed a hand on his back—and for a moment, it felt like Lestrade. But when he turned his head, it was only John, his head down. Next to him was Sherlock, who was looking toward the sunset—or what was left of it. He noticed a chair behind him, one that had been placed there from the start, in case he wanted to sit down. And as much as he didn't want to, he had to. He couldn't support himself anymore—he didn't have a support system anymore.

His knees buckled and his hands slid off the coffin's top, gently resting on the side-rails. But he held on for dear life, trying to reason with himself, or God, or whoever was listening to him at the time, and cried. His head hung between his arms in empty space—space where Lestrade used to be if Mycroft wished to be held (which happened to be every night when Lestrade was gone)—and held on.

Men behind him shouted out something far off in the distance. A soft sound of a violin trumpeted through the entire field and echoed through the night sky. Mycroft knew the song; he always was familiar with it. He remembered the last time he listened to it, with Lestrade, the night before he was killed. It was a thunderstorm, and they had been lying on the couch together, Mycroft resting on his chest.

Mycroft hated most music that played on the radios; he wished to listen to something from the baroque period. And when the record began, he closed his eyes and hummed with the tune. Lestrade had an arm resting around Mycroft. "Mozart?" Mycroft softly shook his head from side-to-side and moved with the music.

"Beethoven," he mumbled. Lestrade slid down the couch a little more, so he could rest easier. Mycroft could see the violins playing with the strings, see the world like it should be seen. He wrapped his hand around Lestrade's and relaxed. "Lovely music," Lestrade looked down at Mycroft, and smiled. Mycroft remembered how Lestrade's relaxing heartbeat drummed against him, keeping in perfect rhythm of the music. He remembered how Lestrade held his hand back.

"It's beautiful," Lestrade whispered. Mycroft opened his eyes; he saw their hands together and heard thunder.

He jumped in his chair; gunfire exploded in the distance. The violin kept playing the song. He thought he was back with Lestrade, back when the music played in the background, back when he could feel Lestrade holding him back. He heard the disconnected men reload, ready to aim at his stars. He could feel the tears still falling, like his star was disappearing. And it was—it was real, everything about this.

Lestrade held him closer; the thunder subsided for only a moment. Mycroft remembered how Lestrade kissed the top of his head, how his lips felt against the open skin. "Mycroft, I love you," he whispered.

Mycroft tilted his head back. When he looked ahead, he saw the white coffin still there. And the warmth was gone.


End file.
